


The Fall

by Anarfea



Series: Scarlet and Chrome [1]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Battlestar Galactica Fusion, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, F/M, Pre-Slash, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain John Watson visits the Battlestar Gallactica to attend the ship's decommissioning ceremony and the retirement of his former CO, Commander Greg Lestrade.  The ship is being turned into a museum to commemorate the Cylon War.  But what if the war isn't over?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out With a Bang

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alutiv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/gifts).



> Special thanks to Alutiv, who is my consulting BSG fan and who nurtured this particular glow in the dark bunny, and also to my other lovely betas: 3littleowls, Prurient_curiosity, and madrona629.
> 
> Many thanks to whomever created [transcript of the BSG Miniseries](http://www.oocities.org/elzj78/bsgminiseries.html). I cannot, alas, credit this person as they are an anon.
> 
> Last and certainly not least, thanks to the creators of [Battlestar Wiki](http://en.battlestarwiki.org/wiki/Main_Page), which has been my Book of Pythia, and hopefully helps make the BSG Universe feel authentic.  I do occasionally deviate from BSG canon; any mistakes are mine.

“Philip.” The voice pulled him from sleep, and he glanced around, blinking. His head hurt. The light in his bedroom was still gray. It was too early.

“ _Philip_ ,” the voice repeated, taking on the familiar, imperative tone he found irrefutable. “Wake up.”

The woman in his bed sat up. “Who is _she_?”

 _Frak_. He remembered why his head hurt. He’d been out drinking, and he hadn’t come home alone.

He peeked over the covers at Miss Adler, who was seated in the armchair across from his bed. She was wearing what she referred to as her ‘battle dress,’ which meant she was completely nude except for crimson lipstick and black stilettos. Her long, white legs were crossed, and he could see the blood red soles of her pumps. In spite of his current predicament, or perhaps _because_ of it, because he had been caught cheating on his Dom with a girl whose name he didn’t even remember--tomboyish, not his usual type, but she’d said she was a viper pilot on shore leave and she’d looked at him like was something she’d intended to eat, and he’d always had a weakness for strong women--his traitorous cock swelled with appreciation; his mouth watered at the thought of running his tongue over her shoes.

Irene looked at the woman in bed with him and cocked her head towards the door. “Get out.”

“Who the frak are you?” she demanded, black eyes smoldering like coals.

“She’s um,” oh, he was going to be punished for this, he could almost _feel_ Irene’s stilettos tearing into his back, “my friend.”

The woman beside him snorted.

“Get. Out.” Irene stood, towering in her heels, and his bedfellow did get up, but she didn’t flee from the room. Not bothering to cover herself with the sheet, she walked to Irene and stood toe to toe with her. Her tight, black curls were disheveled from sleep and sex, where Irene’s brunette tresses were perfectly coifed, and her face was bare, where Irene’s was perfectly made up, and yet she seemed completely confident, even though she was three inches shorter in her bare feet than Irene was in heels. For a few minutes they stood, black eyes boring into blue, both naked, one dark, the other pale, and he wondered if they were going to fight, or--the thought tantalized him--make out, but they did neither.

Irene won; the other woman rolled her eyes and turned away. “Whatever,” she muttered. “I have to get back to my ship.” She collected her clothes, which were strewn all over his floor, dressed without looking particularly hurried, and twisted her wild curls into a sloppy bun. “You can have him,” she told Irene. “Not that there’s much of him worth having.”

Irene smirked. “On that much, we agree.” She turned towards him, staring like a cat watching a mouse hole, and waited until they both heard the door shut and were alone again.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted. “It was me. I screwed up. I’m screwed up. I--”

Irene threw the duvet and sheets onto the floor. “Get out of bed,” she told him. “And then get on your knees.”

He scurried to comply.

* * *

 

 

John strode across the portside hangar deck of the Galactica, past a squadron of vintage viper Mark IIs. Gods, it had been a while since he’d seen one of those. The sleek fighters had been buffed and painted to look like new, but they had to be decades old. He was a little nervous about flying one, but he’d been assured the controls were essentially the same. A velvet rope separated them from a compliment of Mark IIIs, which were also well kept, but were clearly used regularly and lacked the pristine shine of the Mark IIs. With only two squadrons of fighters, the deck looked nearly empty. He felt for Lestrade, he really did. Galactica was a huge step down from the Valkyrie, which had been his previous command.

“Nice landing,” said a smiling woman in orange coveralls. “Bet it’s been a while since you’ve come in hands-on.”

He nodded. He hadn’t been on a ship that didn’t have an auto landing system in ages. It was like being in a time capsule, here. Still, he’d enjoyed it. It had felt good, coming in on manual control. He bet it would be even more fun if the battlestar were moving.

She extended her hand. “I’m Molly Hooper, by the way. I’ll be your crew Chief while you’re here.”

“Captain John Watson,” he said, shaking it.

She smiled. “I know who you are, Sir. The Commander is waiting for you in the CIC. We’re glad you’ll be participating in the ceremony.”

He motioned to the row of Mark IIs. “Will those things fly?”

She grinned. “You bet your ass, Sir.”

He nodded and set out to find the ship's Command Center.

John had never been aboard a ship of Galactica’s class; she was one of the first twelve battlestars ever built. One had been assigned to each colony, and Caprica’s was the only one still in service (if you could call coast guard duty service). But there was a certain logic by which corridors flowed towards CIC, like veins carrying blood back to a heart.

He heard boots pounding in the corridor behind him. “Doc!”

John whirled towards the familiar voice. It was Sally Donovan, in a tank top and fatigues, grinning and sheened with sweat. He smiled at her, and she threw her arms around him, nearly bowling him over.

“Good to see you, too,” he said, patting her on the back. “Are you moving to a better ship for your next assignment? The Commander’s told me you’re a better pilot than him, and twice as good as me.”

Sally snorted, eyeing his collar. “Was that just you fishing for a compliment on your promotion?”

John raised an eyebrow. “What, to Captain? Got these pins over a year ago, now.” Had it really been two years since he’d seen Sally?

“‘Bout frakking time,” she grinned, then added, “Sir.”

“Can’t say I disagree.”

“Have you seen the Old Man, yet?”

“No.”

“Come with, then. He’s on the bridge arguing with some suit.”

John grinned. That ought to be entertaining.

There were multiple suits, actually, but John instantly knew which one Sally had been talking about. It was a three piece suit, tailored, and entirely unsuited to a battlestar. The tall, slender man wearing it wore a pained expression, his lips twisting as he seemed to be trying to smile, frown, and sneer at the same time.

“Good men and women died on these decks because someone wanted a faster computer,” he heard a familiar voice insist, as he came up behind Lestrade.

“I’m talking about a basic network,” the suit replied in the haughty, clipped tones John associated with news anchors from Virgon. “To help museum-goers navigate the ship and allow teachers to access the archives. It’s hardly AI.”

“You’re still talking about networked computers. And I will not have computers talking to each other on this ship.”

“There’s hardly a call for that kind of technophobia these days. Don’t you agree, Sherlock?” he said, turning to the man beside him.

The suit’s companion stood out even worse than he did, and John was startled that he hadn’t noticed him before. He wore a black overcoat, even though the ship’s climate control kept a comfortable ambient temperature, and he had a blue scarf knotted around his neck. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and he was staring at the ceiling.

“Sherlock?” the suit repeated.

He blinked. “Technophobia concerns me when it inhibits meaningful research. I couldn’t care less about brass and bureaucrats. If the tourists want to know where the loo is, they can read a bloody map.”

The suit looked as though he’d swallowed a pyramid ball. “Thank you, dear brother, for so colorfully sharing your opinions.”

“You’ve only yourself to blame, Mycroft. You did solicit them.”

John cleared his throat, not wanting to give the appearance of eavesdropping. “Commander?”

Lestrade turned to face him, and John saluted. “I was told you wanted to see me, Sir.”

Lestrade returned the gesture, and then smiled stiffly.

“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,” said John.

“You’re not interrupting at all, Captain Watson. The Under Secretary and his entourage were just leaving.”

“May we have another word after the decommissioning ceremony?” Mycroft asked.

“You can have as many words as you’d like. My answer is still going to be, ‘not while I’m in command of this ship.’”

The suit plastered an oily smile on his face. “I’ve been given to understand that after the conversion is finished you’ll be retiring.”

Lestrade’s jaw clenched. John fought the urge to punch the uptight asshole in the nose. Sally’s face was a mask of cool, deadly fury, and he remembered why they’d given her the call sign Copperhead. She looked like a snake preparing to strike.

“Good day, Commander,” the suit sneered.

“Good day, Mr. Under Secretary.”

The tension still hung in the air even after Mycroft, his aides, and his bizarre younger brother left the room.

“Well, that was awkward,” John said, and a few people smirked at their stations.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get a proper welcome,” said Lestrade, who shook John’s hand vigorously and slapped him on the back. “It’s good to have you aboard, even if it’s just for the day.” Greg Lestrade’s hair had gone completely silver (John realized he had a bit of gray himself, now) and his face had a few more lines than John had remembered, but he’d kept himself in good form. “Why don’t we go to my office and do some catching up before the ceremony?”

John nodded. “Of course.”

Sally smiled at him again. “See you this afternoon, Doc. The CAG wants to go over the fly by maneuvers.” She turned and walked out of CIC, breaking into a jog when she reached the corridor, and John felt himself watching the straight line of her back, the hard curves of her toned biceps, with more than a little wistfulness. He tamped it down immediately. Sally had been Bill’s, he admonished himself, and Bill had been like a brother, and you didn’t look at your brother’s fiancée like that. Except he’d done more than look. He told himself it had just been the one night, and they’d both been drunk on grief and moonshine. It wasn’t something he could allow himself to dwell on.

With a start, he realized he hadn’t seen either Lestrade or Sally since the funeral. He searched for a way of broaching the subject the whole walk, and, not finding a satisfactory way of bringing it up, dropped it. That’s what had started it all, that mission, and now Lestrade was being forced into an early retirement.

He sat down in one of the leather chairs in Lestrade’s office. “Decommissioning ceremony,” he said. “I’m sorry it seems we only meet under unfortunate circumstances. I should have made a better effort to stay in touch.”

Lestrade took the seat across from him. “You don’t get much shore leave. I don’t blame you for not wanting to spend it with your old CO.”

John shrugged. “All the same. I should have done better.”

“Me, too,” Lestrade said, and John knew he meant about Bill, and he knew he should tell Lestrade that he’d done the best he could, that it had been the right call, that he would have done the same. But he couldn’t. The two of them sat a few moments in silence.

“Thanks for agreeing to participate in the ceremony,” Lestrade said, at last.

John shrugged. “This ship deserves a proper send-off into retirement.” Lestrade did, as well, but he wasn’t going to mention that, not after that politician’s quip earlier. “It’s such a shame, making a museum out of a proud old battlestar.”

“People need to remember the war.” Lestrade frowned. “Although I do hate that they’ve turned my starboard launch into a _gift shop_.”

John ran into Sherlock again after he’d finished the air group briefing. He’d either ditched or lost his brother and his entourage, and was wandering the ship on his own, looking at her antiquated technology--phones with cords, manual valves--muttering things like “fascinating,” and generally being oblivious to the presence of both Galactica’s crew and the museum conversion people, who parted around him like water around a rock.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” John asked. “Captain John Watson.” He extended his hand.

Sherlock shook it, and he was wearing frakking _gloves_. He had to be some kind of lizard, if he thought it was cold enough for those in here.

“I remember seeing you on the news.” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t bother asking me how I faked my death. I’m sick of everyone fixating on that instead of my work.”

John frowned. “Actually, I was going to ask about that article you posted on your website. Do you really think it’s a good idea to start researching AI again? That the cylons are no longer a threat? Like that Dr. Anderson fellow?” Only a few days ago, Phil Anderson had been talking up his new spacecraft navigation software on television, arguing that the Fleet should focus on it’s exploratory mission, which he believed had taken on greater importance than it’s military one. John found the fact that any media outlet was paying attention to him disturbing, because he knew the cylons were still on the other side of the line, but of course, he couldn’t say that.

Sherlock snorted. “You clearly didn’t read the whole article, or you’d know I’m not at all like _Dr_. Anderson,” his lip curled around the title. “I’m not saying the cylons aren’t a threat, but we have an incomplete understanding of artificial intelligence, and a blanket prohibition on research because we are afraid is not the answer. Anderson’s an imbecile. I have serious misgivings about his CNP ‘upgrades’ that have been installed all over the Fleet; it’s a poor idea to have all the ships running the same navigational software in the name of efficiency. I told him as much, but he’s never been willing to work with me.”

John blinked. “I didn’t realize you worked for the Defense Ministry.”

“I don’t. But whenever they are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me. Though lately I wonder why they bother; they never listen to anything I say. I posted _that_ on my website as well; your observational powers must be truly abysmal if you missed it.”

This guy was so full of himself John actually had to laugh. “Observational powers?”

“Not like comic book superpowers, Captain Watson.” He tapped his gloved finger to his temple. “I’m talking about utilizing your senses, being aware of the environment around you.”

John chuckled darkly. “If I wasn’t frakking good at utilizing my senses, I wouldn’t be here.”

“That’s--combat instinct, which isn’t quite the same, though it’s certainly useful.” Sherlock tilted his head to the side, and his eyes were strange, wide-set, John would have said ‘alien,’ if he believed in aliens. “You have to have served under Lestrade, because you’ve come here to fly in the ceremony. You aren’t old enough to have fought in the Cylon War, but you’ve clearly seen combat. You’re too civic minded to have worked as a mercenary. So, combat experience, in a peacetime fleet, and yet you haven’t made Major. Then again, Lestrade’s Commander of a museum, now--a surprising turn of events given his rapid promotion earlier in his career. He was doing very well for himself until--”

John felt his pulse rate increasing.

“Oh!” Sherlock’s eyes widened, his lips rounded, and he steepled his fingers under his chin. He looked John up and down with a small smile on his lips, and John had the distinct feeling Sherlock that had just performed some sort of test on him, and that he had passed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

John frowned. “See you after the ceremony,” he muttered. “I’m to escort your brother’s ship back to Caprica.”

John sat with the engines of his Mark II idling, floating in space, listening to Lestrade’s staticky voice over his com.

“The Cylon War is long over, yet we must not forget the reasons why so many sacrificed so much in the cause of freedom. The cost of wearing the uniform can be high, but…” He paused, for so long that John worried he’d forgotten the words of his speech. John had heard parts of it; Lestrade had been muttering it to himself in the morning after they’d left his quarters.

“...Sometimes, it’s too high.”

And _that_ line had not been part of the speech he’d been practicing.

“When we fought the Cylons,” Lestrade continued, “we did it to save ourselves from extinction. But we never answered the question: why? Why are we as a people worth saving? We still commit murder because of greed, spite, jealousy. We refuse to accept responsibility for anything that we’ve done.”

John looked over at Sally, floating alongside him. She’d been at his left wing during the formations demonstration. She should have been flying next to Bill. It should have been John, in that other cockpit two years ago--would have been, if not for his stupid shoulder. He’d told himself he hadn’t kept in touch because he didn’t want to let what had happened the night of the funeral happen again. But the truth was also that he couldn’t bear lying to her. He couldn’t continue to look her in the eyes and tell her her fiancée had died in a training accident.

“We decided to play god, create life, when we made the Cylons. When that life turned against us, we comforted ourselves. We said that it really wasn’t our fault, not really. But you cannot play god, and then wash your hands of the things that you’ve created. Sooner or later, the day comes when you can’t hide from the things that you’ve done anymore.”

It relieved John to know that Lestrade didn’t lie to _himself_ , at least, that he didn’t go to bed at night thinking he’d just been following orders. You weren’t supposed to follow an illegal order; they’d taught that in the ethics classes back in war college. They should never have crossed the armistice line, and Bill had paid the ultimate price for it. At least they hadn’t provoked a war.

* * *

 

Irene lifted her chin. “I’m a woman.”

“You’re a machine that looks like a woman.”

“No,” she said. “I’m a sentient being. An autonomous individual. Same as you, well, better than you.”

“Sorry, it’s just, the last time anyone saw the cylons, they looked more like chrome top _toasters,”_ clumsy, clanking things with heavy, metal limbs and tinny electronic voices, “not--” he gestured towards Irene’s naked body.

“Those models are still around,” she smirked. “They have their uses.”

He tore his fingers through his hair. “This is ridiculous.”

“You know it’s true. You’ve always known. That I was different. Special.”

Miss Adler was different. But he’d assumed that was because of her dominant nature; he had come to expect her to be capricious, ferocious, prone to strange outbursts of odd behavior. And honestly, that’s probably all this was; the hot ones were always crazy, and the sex had been fantastic, but it was probably time to end things, to find someone a bit more stable.

“Does it make you feel special, Phillip? That of all the men on all twelve colonies, I chose _you_ for my mission?”

He blinked. “Mission?”

“Oh, come on.” She smiled. “Why do you think I wanted access to the defense mainframe? Why do you think we built all those back doors into the CNP system? You don’t _seriously_ still think I work for a defense contractor, do you?” Her smile broadened. “Well, I suppose I do. In a manner of speaking.”

His blood roared in his ears. “You’re--” he stared at her. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

“I’m always serious,” Miss Adler purred, walking her fingers across his bare chest, tracing over the welts she’d made with the crop earlier.

He threw his body across the bed, flailing through his nightstand drawer for his phone.

“What are you doing, Phillip?”

“Calling my lawyer.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, you poor man.” Her expression hardened. “That won’t be necessary.”

He froze. “What do you want, then? Are you blackmailing me?”

“Blackmail? Why would I blackmail you? There’s nothing you have that I want. No, I’m saying don’t bother phoning an attorney, because in a few minutes, no one will be alive to charge you with anything.”

He felt light headed. He rolled onto his back, sinking into his pillow.

A flash of light illuminated the room starkly.

“It’s starting.” Irene whispered, pupils dilating.

The low boom following the flash shook the flat, rattling the picture frames.

He fought back nausea. “You must know a way out of the city. Have an escape planned.”

It was Irene’s turn to blink at him. “And miss the fireworks?”

“You want to die here?”

She chuckled, and lay her body across his, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “I can’t die, Phillip.” She kissed him. “When this city goes up in a mushroom cloud, my consciousness will be downloaded into an identical body.”

“There are more like you?” he whispered.

“Legions. Though not all of them are exactly like me. There are twelve humanoid cylon models. I’m number Six.”

He swallowed.

“I’m immortal. You, on the other hand, are about to die.” She grinned wickedly, and straddled him. “Want to go out with a bang?”


	2. Successions

Klaxons blared throughout Galactica. “Action stations, action stations,” Molly heard the XO snap over the comm. “Set condition one throughout the ship. This is not a drill. Repeat: action stations, action stations. This is not a drill.”

Two of Molly’s knuckledraggers groaned. They’d just finished swabbing the decks after arranging the Mark IIs in the museum.

“Not a drill? They can’t be serious.”

“Sounds like it to me.”

Molly swallowed and pushed down the butterflies in her chest. “Alright people, let’s go. Get down to the port hanger and get ready for incoming.”

“What do you think it is, a shipping accident?”

“Probably, let’s get prepped for casualties.”

She took off at a run, one of her braids coming loose from the ring around her head, the deckhands trailing behind her. The alarm stopped, and instinctively, so did Molly.

“This is the Commander.” Lestrade’s voice echoed as it was simultaneously broadcast on all of Galactica’s speakers. “Moments ago, this ship received word that a cylon attack against our home worlds is underway. We do not know the size, or the disposition, or the strength of the enemy forces. But all indications point to a massive assault against Colonial defenses. Admiral Negala has taken personal command of the fleet aboard the Battlestar Atlantea following complete destruction of Picon Fleet Headquarters in the first wave of the attacks.”

The knuckledraggers stared at her, open mouthed. She held up her hand to stop them from speaking.

“How? Why?” Lestrade’s voice continued over the comm. “Doesn't really matter now. What does matter is that as of this moment, we are at war. You’ve trained for this. You’re ready for this. Stand to your duties, trust your fellow shipmates, and we’ll all get through this. Further updates as we get them. Thank you.”

“War with the cylons,” Toby whispered. “We can’t fight. We don’t have anything to shoot!” He was referring, of course, to the ceremonial dumping of Galactica’s munitions, which had taken place at the end of the decommissioning.

Molly winced. He was a rook from Sagitaron, joined the Fleet to pay for school. Nobody could afford to act like a rook now. “Our vipers have ordnance. That’s what we shoot.” She squared her shoulders and found her voice. “People, the Commander’s going to want his birds in the air. We get down to port launch, we get our fighters ready to roll, and and we get our pilots out the tubes so they can kick some cylon ass!”

For a few seconds they blinked at her.

“Move!” she screamed. They broke into a run.

The cabin of the Colonial Heavy 798 Starliner was humming with hushed noise. Everywhere Sherlock could hear people whispering, murmuring, but no one said anything in full voice. He had been assigned to a first class window seat behind the cockpit in a group of four seats all facing each other. He was in one, Mycroft and his PA, Anthea, each occupied one of the two opposite. The fourth one, on the aisle, was empty. He’d been observing signs something had gone terribly wrong since about an hour after they’d departed Galactica.

First, they’d veered off course. He doubted the other passengers had noticed; most people weren’t very good at orienting themselves in space, but he’d observed the subtle shift in the ship’s bearing. Second, he was seeing other craft outside their windows. Cargo ships. Passenger liners. Closer to them than Caprica’s space traffic control should have allowed. That was when the whispering had started. It was also when he had discreetly taken out his short-wave wireless.

He’d placed the radio on the low table between them. All three of them leaned in, heads nearly touching, as they strained to hear the wireless, which Sherlock had turned to the lowest volume setting. The signals were garbled and confused, but none of the chatter was good.

“We need a secure channel.” Mycroft said. “And someone at the other end who knows what’s happening,” He stood up and headed for the cockpit.

Sherlock followed him.

“Excuse me,” said Mycroft, knocking on the cockpit door.

“Yes?” The pilot answered. He was flushed and sweating.

Mycroft slipped inside, and Sherlock shut the door behind them.

“My brother has a short-wave wireless. We’ve heard reports of a nuclear attack on Caprica. It’s true, isn’t it?”

The pilot blanched, then nodded. “Caprica and three other colonies.” He held out a printed message. Mycroft gripped the pilot’s wrist to keep it from shaking so he could read it. Sherlock couldn’t see it, but he read everything he needed to know on his brother’s face.

“I guess I... uh... I should go make an announcement or something,” the pilot stammered.

“I’ll do it,” said Mycroft. “I’m the senior government official on this ship; it’s my responsibility.”

The pilot’s shoulders slumped with relief.

“Get me a commlink to the Ministry of Civil Defense,” said Mycroft, “I’ll need to speak with them as soon as I’ve addressed the passengers.”

Sherlock leaned against the wall of the cockpit, listening to his brother calmly announce the end of the world.

John made slow circles around Colonial Heavy 798, glad to be back in his own cockpit again. Whatever Sherlock’s ‘misgivings’ were about Dr. Anderson’s CNP system, at least you could see where you were and where you were going in a Mark VII. He was becoming increasingly concerned by the reports they were picking up over the comm. Everything was garbled, but it seemed there was a full blown battle raging in orbit around Caprica. All civilian ships had been ordered to avoid Caprican space. Colonial Heavy 798 had stopped it’s journey about an hour out from the planet’s orbit, and they were now simply idling in the Helios Alpha system; a few other ships drifted around them.

“You still out there, Doc?” The starliner’s pilot asked with a burst of static.

“Sure am.”

“That makes us all feel a little better, Sir.”

John bit back a chuckle. It wasn’t funny, it really wasn’t, but then, he’d always laughed in inappropriate situations. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but, to be honest, my role as escort is mostly symbolic. I’m armed, but a single Viper isn’t going to do much against a swarm of cylon raiders. If we get company, you pour on the speed and you run. I’ll cover you for as long as I can.”

“My hand’s on the throttle. Hasn’t left since I got that first message.”

John saw the blip on his DRADIS.

“Frak. We have an incoming missile.” He didn’t see any raiders; it must have been a stray traveling on it’s inertia. What he wouldn’t give for a supporting raptor with a competent ECO to intercept it. He might as well wish for a beach condo off the Argentum Bay. They were almost two hours away from Galactica, and it sounded like the battlestars defending Caprica were pretty occupied. Just have to do it himself, then… He pulled back on the flight column, flipping the viper vertical to make himself a bigger target. An alarm blared, informing him that the missile had locked onto him. At least his stupid maneuver had worked. 

John led the missile away from the starliner, which was hauling ass in the other direction as instructed. He whirled the viper around, firing both Mass Accelerator Cannons hard at the warhead. It exploded into a ball of orange fire, flowing like liquid into the vacuum of space. Debris slammed into the fighter, and his screens went dark. Frak. He’d let it get too close.

John tugged at the flight column, and was relieved that the ship climbed as expected. So, he was still spaceworthy, but blind. No targeting. No nav. No weapons. He really was frakking useless even as a symbolic escort. He pressed his comm and heard static. At least the radio still worked.

“This is Doc to Colonial Heavy 798. I’m declaring an emergency. I’ve been hit; weapons grid is offline. Can I come in?”

“What’s going on Chief? I need fighters!” Lestrade shouted over the comm.

Molly yelled into her headset to project over the noisy, organized chaos that was Galactica’s port launch. Pilots were wriggling into their suits, Deckhands were loading them into the cockpits, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and fuel. “The alert vipers are in the tubes, Sir. But we only have the one squadron. I don’t have enough ships for all our pilots!”

“I seem to recall a squadron of Mark IIs flying over in this afternoon’s ceremony.”

Molly bit her lip. Why the frak hadn’t she thought of that? “I’ll get right on it, Sir. But it’s going to be a while. The biggest problem will be getting them over here to the port launch bay--we just set them up in the Starboard hangar with the museum crap. Once we get them here, we still need to load the ordnance and refuel.”

“This is the XO,” Dimmock’s voice came online. “Why can’t we use the starboard launch?”

“Because it’s a fraking gift shop, now!” Lestrade snarled. “Chief, send anyone we can spare to go get those Mark IIs! And find me Copperhead!”

“She’s in the--” Molly was about to say ‘tube,’” when Sally Donovan strode on deck, in full flight suit, face ablaze, hair sticking out every which way from under a bandana. “Three fraking aborts, Chief?”

Well, at least that had worked out nicely. Molly straightened her headset. “She’s right in front of me, Sir.” She switched the comm from headset to speaker.

“Copperhead, do you read me?” asked Lestrade.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I need you to lead the Mark II squadron. Acknowledge.”

Copperhead looked startled, and then a slow smile crept across her face. “Sounds like a hell of a plan, Sir.”

“Radio when you’re in the air. CO out.”

Sally tried to put her hands on her hips, a gesture somewhat ruined by the fact that she was carrying her helmet. “Am I going to get in the air? What the hell is going on with your launch crew?”

Molly grit her teeth. “We’re on it, Sir. It’s the pressure reg valve again.”

“That shit better be fixed by the time I’m back with the Mark IIs.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sally whirled away from her and ran down the flight deck, tapping deck hands and pilots on the shoulder as she passed them. “Let’s go, people! We’re grabbing the old buckets in the museum and bringing them over here!”

Colonial Heavy 798 had a small hangar just wide enough to accommodate a single Colonial Shuttle or raptor. It could possibly fit two vipers--if the pilots were good enough to land wing to wing. It was currently empty. John glided in with almost no thrust, (he was getting used to this hands-on landing thing) and waited for the bay doors to close and the airlock indicator to turn green. As soon as he confirmed he had a hard seal, he taxied the Mark VII into the nearest of 798’s four cargo holds. A few civies appeared to be transferring freight from neighboring compartments to this one, presumably making space for casualties, or refugees. John was glad someone had thought of that.

A frazzled, sweaty man in a burgundy sport coat ran towards him. “Captain Watson, thank the Lords of Kobol you’re here. It’s such a relief to have someone who knows what they’re doing take charge.”

“Um, thank you?” John said. He hadn’t actually planned on taking charge; 798 had a pilot, and John was of the belief that a pilot was king on his own ship. The man in front of him looked vaguely familiar, but it could just be that he had one of those faces that reminded everyone of someone.

“I’m Aaron Doral,” he said, thrusting out his hand.

John shook it. It was clammy.

“I’m with the museum conversion team. We met on Galactica.”

John’s brain was having difficulty processing the fact that he’d been at the decommissioning ceremony mere hours ago. “Right,” he said.

“Listen, I’m really not sure that woman--” he cocked his head towards a brunette in a sleek skirt suit whom John recognized as being part of the Secretary’s entourage, “--knows what she’s doing.”

John arched an eyebrow and looked at her. She was currently overseeing a group of men sliding a pair of energy coils from the Galactica towards the bulkhead. “Let’s get these hooked up to the spare generator. They’ll make it last longer in case we loose main power.” She glanced at her clipboard and then pointed at a woman who was wandering the cargo bay looking lost. “You. Head for the kitchens and take an inventory of any food we have. Lock yourself in to fend off any potential hoarders.” She glanced at Doral. “I thought I told you help make room so we can turn the other three cargo compartments into living space. We can fit another five hundred people on this ship if we get those shipping containers moved.”

Doral looked at John pleadingly.

He shrugged. “The lady is in charge.”

She nodded brusquely, but John thought he saw the barest hint of a smile. She was kind of cute, actually, and that was probably not the most appropriate thing for him to be thinking, he shouldn’t--

“Captain Watson?” The brunette’s matter-of-fact tone snapped him back to reality.

“Yes?”

“The Secretary has requested you report to him as soon as possible.”

“Where is he?”

“The cockpit.”

“Okay,” John said, and headed upstairs.

“How’s the triage station coming along?” he heard the woman call as he left the cargo bay.

“Viper 1104 clear forward,” the launch supervisor droned through her helmet’s speakers. Copperhead closed her eyes, hand on the throttle, and leaned back into her seat, bracing for high g. The engines were spooled to 85% with thrusters idling, and their vibrations thrummed through her body. This was the moment she lived for; she felt like a stim junkie sticking a needle in her vein, except that  _ she _ was the stim, and the launch tube was her syringe. The Chief had finally pulled the frakking relay valve, and she was itching to get into the fight.

“Navcon, green,” the supervisor continued. “Interval, check. Navcap, ready. Tube door, ready. Thrust positive. Mag cat engaged.”

Her eyes flew open as the mag cat began to hum.

“Good luck.”

Adrenaline surged through her body as the magcelerators attached to her forward strut pulled her down the the tube at 3gs before catapulting her into space. 

Lestrade stood in the CIC, eyes fixed on the DRADIS console, watching as Copperhead and the Mark II squadron engaged the raiders. The Mark IIIs had simply drifted, freezing up when they got close to the raiders.

Her voice crackled over the speakers. “Frak me, these things don’t have any cockpits. They’re just like big flying wings, with flashing red beams where the pilots should be.”

Lestrade pursed his lips. At least that much was familiar, then. The raiders had looked much the same in his viper jockey days.

“He’s irradiating some sort of weapon at me,” Copperhead continued, “but it doesn’t seem to have any effect.” He heard her MECS blasting in the background, and then she gave out a loud ‘whoop.’ 

The green triangles indicating the Mark IIIs started moving again. Whatever jamming the cylons had been using, Copperhead had neutralized it.

“All vipers, systems are go!” she shouted.

The bridge crew cheered; the moment shattered when one of the triangular blips dropped off the DRADIS console.

“Hold it together, guys,” Copperhead urged.

“Come on,” Lestrade growled.

“Frak, I’m hit,” she yelped, and, a moment later, “I’m all right.”

The tactical specialist looked up at him. “Radiological alarm.”

“He’s got nukes,” Dimmock muttered, staring at the two blips creeping towards them on DRADIS. There was another burst of cannon fire, and one of them went dark. The other was still closing.

“Galactica, you’ve got an inbound nuke,” Copperhead shouted. “All Vipers, break! break! break!”

Lestrade gripped the light table with both hands and leaned forward, eyeing Dimmock. “Brace for contact, my friend.”

Dimmock grabbed the other side of the table. “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

They still fell down when the ship rocked from the explosion.

The cockpit of Colonial Heavy 798 was actually rather crowded. Mycroft was in the co-pilot’s seat (John wasn’t sure what had become of the co-pilot) and Sherlock was leaning against one wall, arms folded across his chest. John stood in front of the other. “What do we know?” he asked.

“Preliminary reports indicate a thermonuclear device in the fifty-megaton range was detonated over Caprica City thirty minutes ago,” Mycroft said, as coolly as if he were reporting the weather. “Nuclear detonations have been reported on the planets Aerlon, Picon, Saggitaron and Geminon. No reports on casualties, but they will be high.”

John had grown up in Caprica City. And there were seven million people in the downtown area alone. He felt strangely numb, not registering grief at all. The number was simply too large for the mind to process.

“Picon Fleet Headquarters has been destroyed,” Mycroft continued. “We lost thirty battlestars in the first wave.” 

“That’s a quarter of the fleet.”

Mycroft noded. “The cylons achieved complete surprise. After Picon, President Adar offered an unconditional surrender.”

John gave a low whistle. “So it’s over, then.”

“The cylons didn’t even respond. They’ve made no demands, and ignored all attempts to make contact.”

The pilot interrupted. “We have a priority one message”

“Put it on speaker,” said Mycroft.

“This is an official Colonial government broadcast,” the radio crackled. “All ministers and officials should now go to Case Orange. Repeat: This is an official Colonial government broadcast. All ministers and officials should now go to Case Orange.”

“It’s an automated message,” Mycroft explained. “It’s designed to be sent out in case the President, the Vice President, and most of the cabinet are dead or incapacitated. I need you to send my ID code back on the exact same frequency. Delta, dash 456, dash 345, dash Alpha.”

“Where are you in the line of succession?” John asked.

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged glances, but both remained silent.

After a few moments, the pilot printed out another message and handed it to Mycroft. The Secretary sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, then looked back at the pilot. “I seem to recall the passenger manifest listed a priest on board. Can someone find her?”

“How many did we lose?” Lestrade asked Dimmock, exhaling for what felt like the first time in hours. The nuke had torn a slash along the length of Galactica’s port flight pod, starting fires in multiple bulkheads, and he’d reluctantly given the order to vent the compartments and the deckhands in them in order to starve the flames of oxygen.

“Eighty-five,” Dimmock replied, his face grim.

Lestrade cleared his throat. There would be time to mourn the dead later. “Set up a temporary morgue in hangar Bay B. And find me something to shoot.”

Galactica’s munitions had been dumped during the decommissioning ceremony. He was still cursing that, even though he knew it didn’t help. His ship had no defense but her vipers. They’d lost only two Mark IIIs and one Mark II thanks to Copperhead’s successful attack on the jamming weapon, but they would be sitting ducks against basestars without ship to ship missiles and ammo for the main batteries.

“There’s a munitions depot at Ragnar Anchorage,” Dimmock suggested, “but it’s three days away at best speed.”

“Plot a hyperlight jump from our position to the orbit of Ragnar.”

Dimmock blinked. “This ship hasn’t jumped in twenty-two years.”

“No choice, Major. We have half the cylon fleet between us and Ragnar, and we can’t shoot a hole through them without weapons.”

“Yes, Sir.  Lieutenant Gaeta, break out the FTL tables and warm up the computers. We are making a jump.”

“Wait,” Janette, his communications specialist interrupted. “We have a Priority One message.” She handed him a print out.

Lestrade read it silently as the bridge held its collective breath. He set it down and cleared his throat. “Admiral Negala is dead. Battlestar Atlantea has been destroyed. So has the Triton, Solaria, Columbia... the list goes on.”

Dimmock paled, but kept control of his face. “Who’s the senior officer? Who’s in command?

Lestrade sighed and turned back to Janette. “Send a message to all Colonial military units. Use Priority Channel One.”

“To all Colonial units,” John read aloud to the little group assembled in the starliner’s cockpit. “Am taking command of Fleet. All units ordered to rendezvous at Ragnar Anchorage for regroup and counterattack. Acknowledge by same encryption protocol. Commander Gregory Lestrade.”

For a few moments, Mycroft Holmes simply sat, open mouthed, before blinking and looking down his nose as though he smelled something unpleasant. “Counter attack? Is he mad?”

John bristled, but held his tongue.

Mycroft turned to John. “You’ve served with him before, correct?”

“Yes,” John answered, vaguely surprised the Secretary--the President, he reminded himself, mind somersaulting--had concerned himself with such a minor piece of information.

“Are we within voice range?” The President asked.

The pilot nodded.

Mycroft straightened in the co-pilot’s seat, folding his hands in his lap. “Captain Watson, please inform Commander Lestrade that we are currently involved in rescue operations and require his assistance. Ask him how many hospital beds he has available and how long it will take him to reach our location.”

John nearly choked. “Um... I’m pretty sure he won’t respond very well to that request.”

Mycroft smiled in a way that managed to be condescending and threatening at the same time. “Then tell him this comes directly from the President of the Twelve Colonies, and it’s not a request.”

John took the comm.

“Commander,” said Janette, “Colonial Heavy 798--strike that, they’re now saying they’re Colonial One--is requesting to speak to Galactica Actual.”

Lestrade frowned at Dimmock. “Colonial One? Is this a joke?” He turned back to communications. “Very well, put the call through to my headset.”

She nodded. “Yes, Sir. Colonial One, Galactica. Galactica Actual on line one.”

“This is Doc. Go ahead, Actual.”

“Are you alright?”

“Took a bit of damage from a ship to ship missile. My viper will need repair, but Colonial One is alright.”

“Is,” Lestrade rolled his eyes, “Colonial  _ One _ ’s FTL Drive functioning?

“That’s affirmative.”

“Then you are ordered to bring yourself and all of your passengers to the rendezvous point. Acknowledge.”

John’s fingers stiffened around the comm. He respected Lestrade. He trusted him. And he didn’t trust the President, or like him; he thought he was a pompous asshole, actually. But John respected the office he held. The Fleet was supposed to serve the Colonies, and their elected government. And if there was one thing that he had learned from Bill’s death, from the day’s events, it was that Bad Things (seriously, Watson, that’s what you’re calling the apocalypse?) happened when the military acted on its own without deferring to a civilian government. Not that anyone had elected Mycroft, but he was President according to the Articles of Colonization, and John realized, to his mounting unease, that he was about to set a precedent; that he would be the first to decide if the Articles meant anything anymore.

“We’re engaged in rescue operations,” he said, ignoring Mycroft’s smug smile.

Lestrade’s tone was brusque. “You are to abort your mission immediately and proceed to Ragnar. Confirm.” 

John swallowed. He’d made his decision. There was no backing down from it. “The President has given me a direct order.”

“The  _ President? _ ” Lestrade fumed. “You’re talking about the Under Secretary of Education. We’re in the middle of a war, and you’re taking orders from a  _ schoolteacher _ ?

“If I may?” said Mycroft, reaching for the comm.

John handed it to him.

“I understand your concern with regard to my apparent lack of qualifications, Commander.”

Lestrade snorted.

“I wasn’t actually the Under Secretary of Education. Or perhaps, I should say, I wasn’t merely the Under Secretary of Education.”

“So let me get this straight. You’re telling me you really work for--”

“The Home Security Ministry. I headed the Department of Cylon Research.”

“There isn’t a Department of Cylon Research.”

Mycroft sighed, as though Lestrade had said something truly thick. “Hence my title of ‘Under Secretary of Education.’ They had to put something on the payroll.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “I knew it,” he muttered.

“You did not. You thought I worked in Colonial Intelligence.”

“Prove it.” Lestrade snapped.

“Very well. Although I’m technically outside Colonial Fleet chain of command, I do have a top level Fleet security clearance. I’ll gladly provide you with my authentication codes.” He opened his mouth to continue, but the pilot interrupted.

“We’ve got trouble,” he said, pointing at the DRADIS console. Two blips were moving towards them.

John grabbed the comm back from Mycroft. “Stand by, Galactica.” He switched the radio off and turned to the pilot.

“How long til they get here?”

“ETA six minutes.”

He looked at Mycroft. “The Commander’s right, we have to go now.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Our docking hatch is connected to Gemanon Liner 1701. There are more than a thousand people on board. I’m not going to abandon them.”

“Mr. President, we can’t defend them. We can’t even defend our own ship.”

“Captain Watson, I’m not motivated by sentiment. We need to consider the survival of our species.”

John clenched his fists at his sides. “You’re the President.”

“For the next,” Sherlock glanced at the DRADIS console, “five minutes and thirty four seconds.”

“Permission to go below?” John asked.

Mycroft nodded.

John threw open the cockpit door and ran through the cabin, ignoring people’s gasps and mutters as he sprinted towards the hatch leading down to the cargo bay. He vaguely registered that Sherlock was following, coat flying behind him.

“Get me a status update on Captain Watson!” Lestrade snapped, hurling his silent headset onto his light table. It pushed off one of the maps of Ragnar.

“Sir,” said Dimmock, “we have remote sensor telemetry on Colonial One’s location, and two enemy fighters are closing in on their coordinates.”

“Hail them on speakers,” he said. “Colonial One. This is Galactica Actual. You have inbound enemy fighters coming towards you. Do you read me. Doc? Get out of there!” He was shouting, now. “John! Do you read me? John!”

The DRADIS console flickered, devolving into gray bars and static. Lestrade slammed his fists into the table, and then inclined his head towards Lieutenant Gaeta, who was staring at his monitor. “Thirty-kiloton thermonuclear detonation.”

Greg swallowed past the heat in his throat. All eyes on the bridge turned towards him, but everyone stayed silent. He willed his face blank, looked back at the sea of blank faces. Everyone had lost someone today. No one was allowed to falter. He deliberately unclenched his fists and spread his hands out on the light table. “What about those fighters?”

Lieutenant Carmichael furrowed her brow. “The cylons are moving off, Sir.”

  
  
  



	3. So Say We All

Molly stared at Copperhead’s fighter, aghast. Half the tail section was missing. “Lieutenant, what did you do to my viper?”

Sally was busy leaning over and fluffing the curls she’d released from her bandana. She lifted her head and looked at the jagged metal. “I wondered why the engine gave out.”

Molly walked around, assessing the damage. “We’ll have to pull the whole mounting. Get the high lift!” she snapped at the closest knuckledragger.

Copperhead stared at the viper, chewing her lip.

“I don’t know how you managed to fly this thing, much less land it,” Molly’s murmured, grudging respect in her voice.

“That’s not something I want to think about right now,” Copperhead grumbled. “Where’s Prosna? He’d better get the frakking gimble off, or I’ll have his ass.”

“He’s dead, Sir. He died in the fire.”

Sally’s face softened. “How many did we lose?”

Molly swallowed. “Eighty-five.” Seventy-eight of them hers, rookie deckhands trapped in the bulkheads when Lestrade had given the order to vent the compartments to smother the flames. Twenty-two others had remembered their training, had had their suits on, and had been collected, shaken but unharmed, after. Most had forgotten in the panic. And that was probably on her.

“Right,” Sally said with a sigh. Molly wondered if this was the first time that Copperhead realized that this was a real war, and not just blowing up things in space and coming home covered in glory. That was probably unfair; the pilots had had losses as well; the CAG had gone down the first battle, and Bender, and-- _ Doc _ . “Sir, I don’t know if you heard about Captain Watson, but…”

Copperhead stared at her, face guarded. “Heard what?”

Molly felt her stomach clench. She’d only known him for a few hours, but he’d seemed like a nice man, and she knew that Copperhead and he had been close. She suddenly couldn’t find the words.

Sally’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared as realization crept over her face. “Right.”

Molly touched her fingers to Sally’s shoulder in silent sympathy. Copperhead shrugged her away, turning briskly on her heel and walking down the flight deck. Molly stared after her, dropping her hand to her side.

“You okay, Chief? Chief?”

Molly turned to see Toby staring at her, concern etched on his delicate features. She set her jaw and willed her face blank again. “Get back to work.”

“Are you alright, Captain Watson?”

John's whole field of vision was filled with sharp cheekbones, wide-set silver eyes, and a long, grim chin. His skin tingled and his hair stood on end. He felt vaguely dizzy. His ears were ringing. His blood thrummed in his veins. He giggled. “I’m fine. At least, I think so.” He was almost certainly concussed. And his back ached from where he’d landed heavily on his shoulder blades. “That was fun.” 

Mycroft frowned. “What exactly did you do?”

John pointed his eyes towards the energy coils from Galactica. “I used my viper’s hyperdrive and those to create a massive EMP that disabled the warheads.” He turned onto his side and struggled onto his hands and knees. “I’m--” he teetered as he stood up; leather covered fingers closed around his wrist as Sherlock grasped him. “On the cylons' DRADIS, it should look like a nuclear explosion.”

“That was--” Sherlock stared into his face intensely. “That was brilliant.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Do you realize you said that out loud?”

Sherlock glared at his brother.

“It’s fine,” John said. “I mean--I’m fine.”

“Did it fool the cylons?” the brunette from before asked, hopefully.

“Don’t know,” said John. “But if they weren’t fooled, I think they’d be on top of us by now.”

“Does the rest of the fleet know about this trick?” Mycroft inquired.

“I doubt it,” John muttered, rubbing the crick in his neck. “It’s just a theory we toyed with in war college, but it never used to work during war games; the cylons would see right through it and destroy the targets anyway.”

Sherlock’s face fell.

Mycroft sighed. “And this, dear brother, is why one must always ask follow-up questions, and not celebrate prematurely.”

John blinked. “Yeah... Yeah, we probably should--”

“--evacuate the Gemenon Liner and jump to the rendezvous point before the cylons realize their mistake,” Mycroft finished.

“That,” John agreed.

“What about the people still on the sublight vessels?” the PA asked. “We’ve been transferring them to the FTL capable ships as we’re able, but there are still thousands waiting for assignments.”

John winced. “I bought us fifteen minutes at the outside. It’s enough time to finish moving the people on the other starliner. That’s it.”   
“Only two hundred of them,” she said grimly. 

John blinked.

“Then we’re at maximum capacity,” she explained. “We’ve already accepted three hundred.”

Doral emerged from behind one of the freight containers, wiping his face with a smudged, burgundy sleeve. “There are more than a thousand people on board!”

A few of the civilians shifting the cargo turned towards the commotion.

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “You’ll start a panic.”

“Some of the refugees we’ve taken in still have families on board that starliner,” Doral continued in a furious whisper.

“Perhaps it would be better,” Sherlock ventured, “not to take any additional passengers? Anthea’s right, once we tell them we can’t take them all, they’ll stampede.”

John bit down his retort.

“So we don’t tell them,” said the President. “But we still try to save as many as we can. Captain Watson, get to the cockpit and tell the pilot to begin jump prep. Don’t let him power up the FTL drives until you think we must. I trust your instincts.” He turned to his PA. “Anthea, start transferring refugees from the Gemenon Liner in groups of twenty five. When we reach two hundred, or when Captain Watson gives the order to spool the drives, sever the docking connection. By the time they understand we mean to jump, it will be too late for anyone to riot.”

“How do you intend to deal with the families of the people we leave behind once we reach our destination?” Sherlock asked.

“We do our best to keep families together. And we seal the cargo holds until people have had an opportunity to calm down.”

John grimaced. It was a tough call. It was probably the right call, but he was glad it wasn’t him making it. 

“Sherlock, Commander Lestrade’s message was sent to military vessels only. We received it because we were connected to the Defense Ministry’s encrypted channel. I need you to securely transmit the rendezvous coordinates to the civilian FTL capable vessels. And  _ only _ the FTL capable vessels.”

“Mr. President,” Doral protested. “At the very least, send the coordinates to everyone. The ships that can’t make the jump can follow us at sublight speed.”

“We might as well broadcast our coordinates to the cylons,” Sherlock growled.

Mycroft nodded in absent agreement. “And make sure they know how to transmit an encrypted acknowledgement once we make the rendezvous. The last thing we need is Galactica firing on us as soon as we come out of hyperspace.”

“I’ll say,” John muttered.

“Go,” Mycroft said. “Anthea and I will meet you in the cabin once we’re ready to jump.”

This time, John found himself trailing after Sherlock as they sprinted across the cargo bay.

“Where are we with transferring those munitions?” Dimmock asked.

Chief Hooper’s voice crackled over the comm. “We’re looking at three hours minimum before we have all the warheads in our magazines.”

“The archive also says there’s fifty tons of--”

A warning klaxon blared over the bridge.

“Sir,” Carmichael said, motioning to the DRADIS console. “We have multiple contacts coming down through the electromagnetic storm towards the anchorage. Looks like more than fifty ships.”

“Cut us loose from the station. Launch the alert fighters!” He snatched up the comm. “Action stations, action stations. Set condition one throughout the ship. Prepare to launch--”

“Wait!” Communications interrupted. “I’m getting Colonial signals, now.”

“Have them authenticate. Don’t just accept friendly ID.”

She nodded, and waited for the authentication codes to transmit via a secure channel. She turned to Dimmock, eyes bright. “They’ve confirmed, Sir. Incoming ships are friendly.”

Dimmock unclenched his fists and exhaled. “Action stations, stand down,” he said over the comm.

“The ship calling itself Colonial One is requesting permission to come alongside, Sir.”

Dimmock rolled his eyes. So they were still playing at that game. “Grant the request,” he muttered. 

Colonial One docked with Galactica, and John escorted the President and his entourage aboard. He was disappointed to learn that Lestrade was overseeing the transfer of munitions from Ragnar station to Galactica, and that Dimmock had the con. John had met the XO only briefly, before the ceremony, but he was entirely too by-the-book in his opinion.

“Sir,” he implored Dimmock, “we have fifty thousand people out there. Fifty thousand. Some of them are sick, some are wounded. We need food, water, medical supplies.”

“We?” Dimmock asked him. “ _ You _ need to get your ass to the flight deck. You’re senior pilot now, Captain.”

John grit his teeth. “And I will report for duty, Sir. Just--two disaster pods, Major, you can do that.”

Mycroft smiled stiffly and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll handle this. Major, I’d like to speak with Commander Lestrade directly, if you please.”

“He’s currently off ship, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then I shall wait in his office until he returns.”

“Are you planning to stage a military coup?”

Lestrade hadn’t even completely finished closing the door to his office. He blinked when he saw the ‘President’ had apparently let himself in or been let in, and was sitting in one of the chairs in front of Lestrade’s desk, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in front of him. Lestrade crossed to his drinks cupboard, and, in what he felt was a gesture of supreme generosity, considering his bottle of whiskey was one of the last remaining in the universe, took out two rocks glasses, and dropped two large ice cubes and a finger width of amber liquid into each. “I’m not sure what you’re accusing me of.” 

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Commander. It’s a simple question. Do you plan to declare martial law? Take over the government?”

Lestrade handed one the glasses to Holmes. “Of course not.”

He swirled it, and sniffed appreciatively. “Then you do acknowledge that I am the President, as duly constituted under the Articles of Colonization.”

Lestrade took a sip of whiskey to stall for time. “Mr. Holmes, there are no more Colonies. If the people in those ships out there accept you as their President, I’m certainly not going to say anything to contradict them. I am not concerned with politics. You are welcome to form whatever system of government you wish after we depart.”

Holmes set his glass down with a sharp click. “After you  _ depart _ , Commander? ‘The people in those ships’ are all that is left of humanity. There are only fifty thousand of them, and they are civilian refugees who don’t stand a chance without your ship to protect them.”

They didn’t stand a chance  _ with _ Galactica protecting them. One battlestar against the entire cylon fleet. It would have been better for them to have died quickly, on Caprica, together with their families. Instead, they would starve slowly out here in space. But he didn’t tell that to the self-styled President. “We are at war. My mission is to find and destroy the enemy. A tail of civilian refugees would impede our ability to carry out that mission. The electromagnetic storm around Ragnar Anchorage interferes with cylon technology. They’ll avoid this location. I’m sure that you all will be safe here after we leave.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows in apparent disdain. “You’re the military man, so I’m not sure why  _ I’m _ the one telling  _ you _ this, but the war is over. We lost. Know when you are beaten, Commander.”

“I have no illusions about our odds of victory.”

“So you are knowingly committing the last of humanity’s military resources in a suicide mission? I take it back, then. You’re not incompetent; you’re insane.”

Lestrade bristled. “You would rather that we run?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“And go where?”

Holmes pursed his lips and took a long sip of whiskey.

“You see?” Lestrade said. “Is it so insane to want an honorable, clean death? To take as many of our enemies as possible down with us? It’s better than running with our tails between our legs from system to system with the cylons nipping at our heels and tearing us apart by pieces. The people in those ships need food, water, medicine. The cylons need none of these things, and they will chase us until we run out.”

“We don’t run blindly, Lestrade. We travel towards systems with natural resources. Our fleet includes a tylium refinery, two asteroid mining ships, an agricultural vessel, and a laboratory. We mine water. We grow food. We manufacture medicine.”

Lestrade snorted. “For how long? And don’t tell me ‘until we find a habitable planet.’ We have none of the technology necessary for Kobolforming, and the odds of finding a planet suitable for human life without it are astronomical.”

Holmes got the same look on his face he’d had a few moments before, as though he were debating whether or not to say something. “You were able to authenticate my security codes?” he asked, after a long pause.

That was an abrupt change of subject. “Yes,” Lestrade admitted, grudgingly. However much of a government prick Holmes was, it seemed he’d been a high level government prick.

“You know the legends say there was a Thirteenth Colony.”

Lestrade was going to laugh, to tell him he appreciated his black humor, but Holmes’s features were stiff and serious. “I know they’re just that. Legends.”

“They’re not.” Holmes said. “Earth is real. And that’s where we should take these people.”

He bit back a chuckle. “And the Department of Cylon Research kept maps to Earth, did they?”

“It’s more complicated than that. No, I don’t know the coordinates. But there are ancient documents from Kobol that fill in some of the details of the journey that is recounted in the Book of Pythia. If we re-trace humanity’s steps back to Kobol, there are signs in the temples there that point the way to Earth. The Department of Cylon Research kept this information secret to keep it from falling into cylon hands.”

“You actually think we have a chance at this.”

“I do. And I think it would be a waste to go out in a blaze of glory. Every one of the people in these ships is a survivor. They want to live, but it’s not enough just to live. They have to have something to live  _ for _ . Let it be Earth. Tell them there is a destination to our journey, and they will rally behind you.”

“And if there is no Earth? They’ll never forgive me.”

“Maybe. But we have a few good minds in the Fleet, as well as good ships. I’m confident we can take them home.”

“Who else knows?”

“About Earth? I don’t think anyone else living. The President and the Vice President knew. And some of the Fleet’s flag officers, including Nagala.”

“What are you playing at, Mr. Holmes?”

He blinked. “I am merely trying to insure the survival of the human species, Commander.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “You want me to tell them, to lead them. Why not you? Why not make the announcement yourself, and claim the glory?”

“I lack your--” Holmes waved his hand at Greg, “--charisma.”

Greg snorted. “If we’re going to work together, you should learn I’m invulnerable to flattery, and I despise being kept in the dark.”

Holmes stared into his drink. “I’ve been given to understand that your people were determined to engage the cylons even though Galactica lacks munitions and has only a single elderly squadron of vipers.”

Lestrade nodded. “We’ve re-stocked our weapons supply from the munitions depot here at Ragnar, and we’re researching the weapon the cylons used to disable the Mark IIIs, so we can neutralize it, which will let us use our other viper squadrons.”

“My point was that these people trust you, Commander, and they are prepared to follow you. I’m the Under Secretary of Education, to them.” 

“You need me,” Lestrade said around a smile.

Holmes’s lips twisted. “Yes, I do. Gods help us. But I don’t begrudge you your position. I’ve always been more comfortable as the right hand of power rather than its seat. That said--”

Lestrade chuckled. “And now we get to what it is you want, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes smiled, and for the first time since Greg had met him it looked genuine, not the insipid, false expression he wore for his aides and the cameras. “If this civilization is going to function, it’s going to need a government. A civilian government, run by the President of the Colonies.”

“And you want my support.”

“It would mean a great deal.”

Greg leaned back into his chair and contemplated his whiskey. The ice was beginning to melt. He drank the rest before it became watered down. “So you would be in charge of the Fleet. The military decisions would stay with me.”

“Yes.”

Lestrade set down his glass, and stood, hand extended. “Then we have a deal, Mr. President.”

Holmes glanced down, eyebrows lifting in surprise (probably he was expecting some kind of counter offer, Greg had always been terrible at these things). He eyes were smiling, however, as he stood, buttoning his jacket, and shook Greg’s outstretched hand.

John wove through Galactica's maze of corridors on his way to the Air Wing’s morning meeting, his second as CAG. He’d wanted the position for years, and now, it all felt all wrong, because while he was technically the senior pilot, he knew nothing about the personnel under him. He didn’t know who who flew well together and who hated each other’s guts, or who was good and who was green. Over breakfast, Copperhead casually mentioned Hot Dog and Joker were more likely to shoot each other in the nads than to shoot the cylons, and John had adjusted the patrol schedules so they wouldn’t fly CAP together. He felt vaguely guilty about Copperhead reporting to him; she knew the ship and her crew better than he did. She’d shrugged when he’d mentioned it, said that she wasn’t a big enough dipstick to be CAG. He supposed that was her way of saying she was happy he was alive after all.

He paused when he entered the next hall. The crew had begun to decorate the walls with photos of friends and family who had died on the Colonies. Signs indicated which shrines belonged to which home world. Crates had been set up along both edges of the corridor as makeshift altars, where people had piled ribbons or trinkets, or even lit candles, which Lestrade seemed content to let burn even though they violated Fleet safety protocol.

He paused in front of the Picon section of the hall, and felt ashamed. When Mycroft had mentioned the destruction of Fleet Headquarters, his only thought had been of the military losses. He hadn’t even considered that Harry had probably been close by, hanging out in a bar trying to pick up female, off duty officers. John licked his lips and paused in front of the wall, looking at the photos of smiling faces. He didn’t have any pictures of Harry. He hadn’t come with much other than the clothes on his back; even the spare uniforms in his locker had been provided by Galactica’s quartermaster. 

John reached into his flight suit and removed his phone; he’d been carrying it out of habit, though of course it wouldn’t work up here. It wouldn’t work on planet anymore, either. Caprica telecom had been nuked. He took out the phone’s memory card and slipped it into his pocket. He set the phone onto the stacked containers, inscription side up:

Harry Watson - from Clara XXX.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” a low baritone voice said from behind him.

“Pardon?” John whirled around and found himself face to face with Sherlock. “Oh. What are you doing here?”

“Officially, I’m here to try and figure out how the cylons were able to nearly completely annihilate us in a single coordinated attack. I believe it has something to do with Dr. Anderson’s CNP system.” He smiled at John. “Unofficially, I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why would you--”

“If I were interested in kipping aboard Galactica rather than on Colonial One with my brother, with whom would I inquire?”

“Officially, refugees are restricted to the cargo areas. The conditions are pretty miserable, actually, you’re probably better off staying where you are.”

Sherlock winked at him. “I’m asking unofficially, remember?”

John blinked. He had barely settled into the Galactica himself, he didn’t have any kind of connections-- “Chief Hooper,” he blurted. “I understand she lost a lot of personnel in the first attack. There might be empty racks in her duty lockers.”

“Thank you, Captain Watson.”

“John. And Harry is short for Harriet. She was my sister.”

Sherlock frowned. “Always something. I’m sorry for your loss, John.”

Lestrade waited until Elosha, Colonial One’s priest, finished saying words over the bodies of the deck hands and officers who had died of their wounds aboard Galactica, carefully wrapped in bags emblazoned with the blue and gold seal of the Twelve Colonies. They were few; the majority of their casualties had been vented into space. The mood on the deck was somber; Fleet personnel wore their gray dress uniforms, and the President, his brother, and a few hangers on wore suits. A small group of reporters who had originally been on Colonial One to cover the decommissioning ceremony had, according to Mycroft, taken it upon themselves to become the official news corps of the Fleet. A camera crew was discreetly filming. It seemed as good a time to make his announcement as any.

“Life here began out there,” Lestrade said, raising his voice to project to the back of the hangar. “Those are the first words of the sacred scrolls, written by the Lords of Kobol, millennia ago. And they made it perfectly clear that we are not alone in this universe. Elosha, there’s a Thirteenth Colony of humankind, is there not?”

The priest looked up from her text, but if she was surprised, she kept it from her features. “Yes. The scrolls tell us a thirteenth tribe left Kobol in the early days. They travelled far and made their home upon a planet called Earth, which circled a distant and unknown star.”

“It’s not unknown,” Lestrade said, watching the crew shift where they stood, though they remained at attention. “I know where it is! Earth. The most guarded secret we have. The location was only known to the senior commanders of the Fleet, and we dared not share it with the public. Not while there was a cylon threat upon us.”

He looked out on the sea of faces, many of them with circles under their eyes, hardness in their features which hid the fact that too many of them were too young. “Now, we have a refuge to go to, which cylons know nothing about. It won’t be an easy journey. It will be long, and arduous. But I promise you one thing: on the memory of those lying here before you, we shall find it, and Earth shall become our new home. So say we all!”

For a moment, his people were stunned. They stared at him, faces blank above their starched collars. Then they began to take up the chant. “So say we all.”

They built in volume, began to cheer with wild abandon, elation flushing their faces as they embraced and cried and laughed with each other. He turned his head towards Mycroft, who stood placidly in front of the flags representing the seven Colonies of whom the fallen had been citizens, with a slight smile at the corners of his mouth. He had been right. The survivors had needed hope, and they had given it to them.

“So say we all,” he said, looking straight at the President.

Mycroft’s smile remained tight, but light crept up to his eyes. “So say we all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the set up, folks. More works in this series to come. I'll be modeling them after a combination of BBC Sherlock and BSG plot arcs. With some original plotting, too :-)

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be updating this fic as I can. It's going to be a part of series of connected stories in the BSG AU. The series as a whole is a slow burn with eventual Johnlock. I don't intend to re-work the entire BSG canon, but the particular plot lines I start, I will finish.


End file.
